


Denerim Nights

by shittybundaskenyer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Blood and Violence, But also, Detective AU, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Modern Thedas, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, The Archdemon, and of course there's, brace yourselves because this gonna hurt, modern Denerim, oh and i almost forgot, so Alistair and Delia are both detectives, they're after a blood mage terrorist group called
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-20 19:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18130760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittybundaskenyer/pseuds/shittybundaskenyer
Summary: Denerim. A city full of history and crime. I's home. Or at least it's home for Alistair, and a pleasant enough place for Delia.The dangerous kind of magic never left Denerim, it just learnt how to hide in the darkness. People love danger, so the use of blood magic never stopped, it just left the spotlight. Alistair and his team are the solution for keeping situations like this quiet, working after the sun sets and the blood mages lurk out from their hiding places.Follow two members of the Grey Warden Division through thick and thin during their time in Denerim, in the city of sin.





	Denerim Nights

**Author's Note:**

> So this thing started as a [comic-like illustration series](https://shittybundaskenyer.tumblr.com/post/183476486127/now-i-really-want-to-write-a-detective-au-with) but everyone screamed at me to write the thing so I started it. I try not to disappoint ;)  
> This will be a long and wild ride with crime, friendship, desperation, death and love. (Oh, and blood mage street-fighters because it's cool.)

A C T   1   —   B E F O R E   T H E   D O W N F A L L

  

Denerim.

A city full of history and crime.

Alistair lived in almost every corner of Ferelden, but this city, it holds something unique that screams for his attention. He always comes back. It’s _home_. A strange title for a strange place, but he grew to love it even if he _does_ see it’s darker side more often. How darkness twists in Downtown, under the old ruins of an ancient town, how groups of criminals lurk in the shadows at night. It always makes his skin tingle, but not in a good way. There’s magic, there’s fighting in the streets, there’s war.

But actually, he loves it all the more.

He can still hear the cheering of the crowd gathering four floors under him, somewhere in the basement of the building. The police closed off the street and they surrounded the building while Alistair and his companions broke in. They were dressed casually, hooded sweatshirts pulled over the bulletproof vests and guns tucked into the belts of their jeans.

Alistair fidgets with the small stone he carries with him everywhere in his pocket—he always does this when he’s under more stress than usual. He exhales slowly and tucks his badge back into his sweatshirt with his other hand.

“Theirin, you ready?” Hawke’s sing-song voice echoes through the room from his radio and he shivers, his gaze rapidly searching for his partner’s eyes while he presses the button on the device to answer.

Said fellow detective, Delia Cousland finishes the last touches on her disguise with a leather jacket thrown over her ‘BLOOD MAGIC IN THE WORKS’ t-shirt and simply nods to him.

“Yes, we’re ready,” he answers Hawke, and after a second he adds, “but I think Cousland’s outfit just screams ‘police officer in disguise’.”

Hawke snickers on the other side of the line while Delia shoots a killer glare towards him. Alistair just smiles, or more correctly, smirks and shuts off his radio.

They make it to the basement without running into anyone, but the entrance is trickier with a qunari woman and a muscular elf guarding it. However, they’re playing Wicked Grace, and the elf seems deep in thought so Alistair and Delia just nod to the qunari and slip into the room. Acting cool is the hardest part of it—or at least Alistair thinks it is.

When they’re far enough from the two, Alistair lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding back and looks down at his partner. The green and blue neon lights dance on her dark hair as she hastily tucks away a wild strand from her face. Her fair skin is similar to her hair, her freckles standing out darker on her face than usual. “I’ll watch from the other side,” she points over her shoulder with a thumb towards the cheering people gathered around the fighting ring.

“Take care,” he nods and delves into the crowd.

The air is thick with the stench of blood, sweat and demons and Alistair feels nauseous from just taking a breath. His bulletproof vest is squeezing his body too tight and he feels like he’s choking, drowning in the crowd until he becomes a part of it and his body is liquid, pushing and pulling with them around the fighting ring. A happy roar rumbles through them as a critical hit is landed—or he assumes that caused it, because he’s still so far to see anything beyond heads with messy hair and tattooed shoulders.

Cousland is gone, the huge mass of people swallowed her, too.

He makes his way forward with sticking his elbow into shoulder blades, upper arms and bellies, until he’s at the edge of the ring, his chest pressed tightly to the railing. The smell is even stronger here, making his stomach turn and he has to swallow back his lunch. Everything is a mess in front of him, and around him, too: in the muddy and blood-soaked pit a Terror demon sinks its claws into a Rage demon’s back, and the flesh catches ablaze, turning black and smelling even worse. The crowd starts cheering again, pressing Alistair’s chest more firmly to the steel railing and he can’t breathe for a second.

As the Terror stumbles backwards, the Rage demon roars with renewed vigor, rising its claws towards the ceiling in victory—an unusually human gesture—, and Alistair spots it’s mage almost immediately. An elven girl with glowing pink hair, maybe the age of seventeen, just barely an adult, and she stands on the edge of the ring, a staff in her hand and a blood-stained knife in the other. Her eyes glow with the familiar orange firelight of the Rage demon, and he knows she is in _there_ , in the ring, _in_ the demon.

It's still a bit disturbing for him, seeing the possession working backwards, with not a demon in a mage, but with a mage forcing their will on a demon. And of course, it's all the more dangerous and so much more effective. Alistair knew this would turn into a weird kind of entertainment soon enough. Now he's here in a basement with a fighting ring—the best way to spend his evening for sure.

The other mage faces the elf from the other side, a chubby man with tattoos covering his arms and neck, his blond hair reflecting the neon lights of the makeshift-arena. Blood still clings to his forearm between the lines of the scars of his previous fights and Alistair knows now that they finally found the place.

The dangerous kind of magic never left Denerim, it just learnt how to hide in places like this. After the new laws allowing more freedom to mages were in practice, the huge amount of street fights and mages turning into Abominations were fewer and fewer, but people love danger, so it never stopped, it’s just left the spotlight. Alistair and his team are the solution for keeping situations like this quiet, working after the sun sets and the blood mages lurk out from their hiding places.

Blood magic is still in practice however, even if it was banned back in the old days, more than one thousand years ago. The secret lived on, granting almost infinite power to terrorists these days. The Grey Warden Division—named after the historical order of great heroes—is responsible for cases like this. They are currently searching for mages working for the most powerful terrorist organization, The Archdemon.

Alistair jumps when the Terror cuts an arm off with its razor-sharp claws from the Rage demon when no one pays attention. Dark ichor splashes to the floor and the elven girl shouts foreign curses from the edge of the ring.

The crowd cheers again and the Rage demon breathes fire, turning the pint into an oven.

“Andraste’s holy bosoms, this is madness,” Alistair mutters under his breath and turns his gaze towards the other side of the ring, searching for Delia. She’s standing almost next to the chubby mage with her phone in her hand. She catches his eye and he freezes, but she nods.

His heartbeat quickens as the Rage demon burns down the leg of the Terror, and when it falls to the floor, it’s almost over.

Delia says something, pressing her phone to her ear and he knows it’s the signal. They found the place they were searching for, it’s time to end this.

Within seconds the police floods the place. It’s chaos at first, the huge mass of people shouting in panic as they make a hasty retreat on the back door and the majority of them escapes rather easily. Those who stay however, are a bit tougher than the fans, and at least five of them are armed with their magic.

They are surrounded by the members of the GWD, pistols and magic at their side. Alistair spots Hawke between the two parties, trying to high-five a blood mage rather obviously. It’d not been her if she doesn’t try.

Alistair’s head snaps back towards the pit because the demon who got out of the fight alive is now running towards them, setting everything on fire around it and roaring threateningly. The elven girl controlling it curses loudly before she’s interrupted by Cassandra, the group’s wildcard. She was trained as a member of the Seekers of Truth, a special organization like the GWD and she learnt the ancient techniques used by warriors since the first Divine Age. She neutralizes the magic as easily as one snaps a finger.

Alistair walks closer to the other mages, pulling out his badge from his sweatshirt.

“Good night ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry that I’m the one telling you this, but you’re under arrest for practicing blood magic and exposing innocents to possible demon possession,” he says the formal words in a monotone voice, nodding to one of the officers to take care of handcuffing the suspects.

Cassandra chains the elven girl while Cousland’s walking towards them with the chubby mage, her grip firm on the man’s tattooed shoulder. Delia hands the man to the Iron Bull, that large qunari officer from Cullen’s team, and steps closer.

The air is still heavy with the smell of magic and death but they are both smiling, cheeks and dirty sweatshirts peppered with blood-stains from the mages, the vests squeezing their bodies a little bit too hard, but they both feel utterly relieved. _Finally it’s over_. Alistair lets out a long sigh and tucks away his gun. His hands are still a bit shaky but as his gaze ghosts over the remains of the scene in front of him, he just can’t hold himself back to start smiling again, even if it’s not a pleasant sight: patches of dark blood and burning ichor litter the floor and the broken furniture in the room.

“Hey Theirin,” Delia steps closer to him and elbows him in his side playfully. A shiver runs down his arms and spine. “Drinks on me tonight,” her smile is wide and genuine and he nods, nudging her back and scratching his chin.

“Wow that’s unusual,” Marian Hawke steps next to them, one hand fidgeting with the dark strand of hair falling into her eyes while the other unclasps her west. “Huh, this was _hard._ ”

“Making Cousland buy the drinks or catching these bastards?” Alistair quips and Delia looks at him with her brows drawn together, but her eyes betray her. She’s still smiling.

“Hm, I think both,” Marian winks at Delia with a mischievous smirk on her face. “Anyways, you invite all of us, or this will be a date with Theirin?”

Alistair’s laughter turns into a strange mixture of coughing and choking. He looks at the two women, eyes wide and his heart skipping a beat. Yes, they are friends with Cousland—even if not as good friends as he’s with Duncan—, but a _date_ is an entirely different thing. He’s alone since Maker knows how long and he does not want to start going out with someone from his working place. It just never ends well. And Delia, _Maker_ , she’s the difficult type. He never knows what she thinks or what she’ll do the next time. She’s just too wild, not a good match for a man like him. And why she’d want to date _him?_ He’s the most boring person he knows. Okay, maybe his humor is top-notch and he has a very nice apartment, but…

“Hey Theirin, are you listening?”

_Andraste preserve me, no._

“Sorry, I got carried away with my thoughts,” he blurts out finally, but Delia only shrugs and starts walking away from the scene, smoothing back the wild strands of hair behind her ears. Her hair is a living thing itself, he thinks all the time, and this is no exception.

“See you at two in the Gnawed Noble,” she calls back from the door and Alistair answers with a smile.

“I can’t wait to get properly wasted,” Marian winks at her as they leave the room.

Closing a case as long as this seems easier still than going out with people like Hawke and Cousland, Alistair thinks, and heads towards the others to help them and collect evidence as usual. He’s the one who always stays behind doing the not-so-fun part of the work.

 _Wonderful_.

At least there’ll be drinks this evening.

 

* * *

 

She feels warm, more than usual, and that’s what wakes her. But with the thoughts coming back to her mind, the pain comes too. She waits for a second, waits for her head to explode, but it doesn’t so she lets out a breath and even dares to open an eye.

 _Fuck_.

She can’t move, not now—she’s sore all over like she’d been on a marathon last night. She fully opens her eyes, taking in the sharp white sunlight drawing blocks of light on the walls and the bed. She stares at the ceiling, trying to adjust to this new kind of hungover-life. She’d been drinking too much alcohol before, but it never ended like this, with so much ache _everywhere_.

Her mouth is dry and her hair is all over her face, sticking to her lips and to the dried drool on her left cheek. _Oh, I’m disgusting._ She huffs again and lifts her hand to her face, and just _then_ she realizes that she is not wearing anything right now, only _maybe_ panties.

_“Maker’s balls.”_

Her voice is even worse than she feels it, raspy, almost inaudible.

She lets out a sudden squeal when something twitches under her pillow. She quickly rolls away, hissing as her legs start aching, and she collides with something solid, what’s _really_ warm and _really_ moving.  A calloused hand emerges from between her pillows with _very manly_ fingers and a deep groan rumbles under her ear from a very manly _chest._

“Andraste’s tits, what _the—_ ” her mouth hangs open and she just stares for a moment, the words caught in her throat and even a breath doesn’t escape her mouth. She looks up and almost starts screaming when a pair of hazy, amber eyes stare at her from behind dark brown lashes.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, no no no no, not Alistair!_

Those hazy eyes fly open within a second, and the moment passes, Delia cursing under her breath, crawling away from him and Alistair rolling towards the other direction until he falls out of the bed, his bare arse pointing towards the very heavens.

His legs get caught up in the sheets and he wriggles like snake that’s been stepped on. Delia gets up quickly, pulling the blanket with her and wrapping it around her naked form. She knows she’s staring but she just can’t look away now. She watches him struggle with the fabric tangled around his thighs and ankles until he stops and lets out a whine. She can even hear when his head hits the floor in complete defeat.

Her mind is racing with messy thoughts but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t place all the pieces together—what happened after they started drinking at the bar last night is complete blackness in her mind, and the worst is about all of this that she can’t remember how they got home, or why they were in the same bed. She has a few ideas, she’s not stupid, but it doesn’t satisfy her, not the slightest.

_This whole thing is wrong. And Andraste preserve my soul, why Alistair?_

“Could you help me if I ask you nicely?” he mumbles from the other side of the bed, and she only sees his backside still until she walks around the bed and hastily ties the edges of her blanket around her torso. She bends down to try to free him from the cruel hug of the covers.

He’s all pink and flushed when he can finally sit up, all the way from his ears to his chest, and she’s sure it spreads further, but she doesn’t dare to look lower. _Maker._

“I—um, I think I sh—should go,” his voice is much higher than usual, his gaze looking everywhere but her. She fidgets with the edge of her blanket, her eyes fixated on her toes.

“Yeah,” she forces the word out of her mouth—it tastes bitter and she’s not sure it’s because of the hangover she has. “That would be the best.”

“ _Oh_.”

She draws her brows together. Alistair almost sounds hurt, like he’d been expecting something else.

“Do you remember something from last night?” she asks, and he looks up at her again but his gaze never meets hers.

“Um, just bits and pieces,” he shakes his head, brows drawn together and lips slightly parted. She’d kissed that mouth before and it’s more disturbing than she first thought.

She likes Alistair, but she was never a fan of one-night stands, and being with him in this situation just feels _wrong_. She knows him as this sweet guy with his jokes and weird obsessions, and not as a man who enjoys these kind of things.

_Or, maybe I’m the one who took advantage of him._

_Maker._

She sighs and Alistair gets up from the floor, quickly pulling a pillow off from the bed to cover his manly bits. “My last clean memory is Varric singing along with Marian to ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ and the beer flowing out from Bull’s nose because he started laughing so hard.”

Yes, she remembers that. It’s a start at least.

“Hey, um, I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he starts searching for his trousers and pulling them on when he finds them.

“It’s nothing. I think I should apologize, too. I—I hope we can still... stay friends?” she flops down to the bed, still wrapped in the blanket and watches him dressing up quickly. Faint, fresh scars cover his freckled back and shoulders and she wants to scream.

“Of course,” he smiles a little, then grabs his jacket and with a small wave, he’s out of her room and within seconds, her apartment.

_Oh, fuck, oh **fuck.**_

_This was awkward._


End file.
